Scented
by ProfoundLove
Summary: Alpha!Dean is sent by his classist father to buy an omega and make them the family bitch. The problem, however, is that Dean doesn't follow his father's ideology and sees omegas as people rather than items. Then to make the situation entirely more complicated, Dean and Cas imprint on each other. They're fated mates. Can the two lovers find true happiness without major sacrifices?


Important stuff you should know:

This is my first Supernatural FanFiction, mainly written to form the character of an overprotective!Dean. I am unaware of _many_ of the rules that apply to the alpha/beta/omega universe, so please don't get upset with me if I don't have much of anything right. Lastly, I am unsure whether or not I will continue this FanFiction. What I choose to do strongly depends on the interest shown in what I write. I need someone to beta chapters for me... (and I'd like to make a friend too...).

Reviews are always lovely. Happy Reading.

**Scented**

Dean pulls up outside "Lucifer's Bar and Grill" near 10:30 P.M, the soft purr of his 1967 Chevy Impala's engine filling the packed parking lot. It takes him damn near ten minutes to find a decent spot to park, and by the time he's climbed out of his car's leather interior and locked her, he's well and ready to throw himself onto the glass-littered ground. He still can't believe he's here and about to make the biggest mistake of his whole goddamned life, pissing on all and any of his established morals. Why the hell did his father persist on him finding an omega? It wasn't like the Winchester bloodline was in need of some great reboot, but that didn't matter to John Winchester apparently; it was all about his stubborn pride and the stupid fact that he couldn't man up and accept that his sons didn't agree with his messed up ideology!

"I can't believe this," Dean curses, the fifty thousand dollars his dad had shoved into his pockets heavy with guilt, but he has no choice but to do as ordered. If he doesn't, surly little Sammy would have been sent in his place, and there's no way Dean would have allowed that to happen. Sam still had a chance to make it good in the world while not being messed up in the head.

"I guess there's really nothing I can do, huh?" Dean sighs as he clicks his tongue and sinks through the bar entrance. The first thing he notices when he walks in is that it's hot, like hellishly hot, and everyone is dressed in cliche colors of red and black. Dean almost rolls his eyes at that, though the chance slips past him when a thin hostess with curly red hair walks up to him and says, "Welocme to Lucifer's Bar and Grill. You're either here for The Upstairs or The Downstairs, so which will it be?"

"Downstairs," Dean answers dismissively. The girl swivels on her heels and motions for a short, dark-haired man that's behind the bar. "Crowley," she hollers, "I need you to come over here and take this dude Downstairs. I've got orders to fill and don't have time to deal with anyone's kinky shit tonight."

The man, apparently named Crowley, flips the hostess off and dismisses himself from his work. "You're just lucky I owe you one, bitch," he snaps at her. "I have orders to take too, you know," he continues, but already he's motioning for Dean to follow him. "Follow me, sir," he chides somewhat bitterly, dancing around patrons and leading Dean towards the back of the building.

They drift out of sight fairly quickly, Crowley pulling a key card from his pocket once he's sure they're alone, and swipes it through a card reader that's attached to the metal door they've come to stand in front of. "I want no funny business, you hear? We've got a lot of men downstairs that can easily take you down, so just behave. Alright?" Crowley barks.

Dean exaggerates his nods just to amuse the guy, who then seems satisfied enough, and ushers him down an endless stairwell before disappearing back into the bar. "Well, there's no headin' back now, is there?" Dean says to himself, descending the stairwell with the ease of a sober passenger and emptying into a small, fish-bowl kinda room where hundreds of people are packed together. It's almost comfortable jammed side-by-side all the sweaty strangers, bodies and sweat and heat, but Dean's delusion snaps before it's has the chance to mature when the smell of piss and fear hits his nose.

Dean sighs and flips open his phone to read the time. It's just his luck to be five minutes early, so in an attempt to pass the time he takes a seat and shuts his eyes. He won't sleep, of course, just ease out of everything until it's time to head back home and tell his dad he wasn't able to find anyone suitable enough to claim his.

Dean's almost entirely out of it when a scream shatters through his tranquil aloneness and jerks him back into The Downstairs. When his eyes focus, they're instantly on the sickly-thin girl in the center of the room. She's a blonde, about 5'4 by the looks of it, and her skin is covered in all sorts of marks. Dean has to turn his head and bite the inside of his cheek. How could people treat others like this? It doesn't make sense. There's no difference between alphas and omegas beside from their biological needs, so how come society deemed it alright to punish them for who they naturally are? What if Sammy would have been born an omega? Would their father have sold him off to be some other families bitch? Dean doesn't even want to think about it, so he stops thinking, instead focusing attention back on the girl in the ring and how she's roughly pulled out towards her new owner once the buzzer sounds.

Dean has to close his eyes again before he vomits, very quickly shooting himself back into his dream-like hue, though is sharply pulled from it when the most intoxicating scent he's ever smelt hits his nose and sends him flying back into the past.

He's back at Bobby's Garage, fixin' up some classic oldies and hummin' the tune to "Enter Sandman" by Metallica beneath his breath. The distinct smell of apple pie and his mother's perfume permeates the air, and Dean can hear Sam babblin' to their mother about some girl named Jessica and how she's said yes to the date he's asked her on next Saturday night. Dean smiles at that, smearing the grease off his fingers and wheeling himself from beneath the 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454 LS6 he's been workin' on. He's eager to sit down and eat dinner with his family; it'd been too long since they'd sat down, shared a meal together, and just enjoyed each other's company. Dean wonders what's for dinner, excited as he hustles through the backdoor and towards the kitchen—except that he doesn't make it that far. The floor falls from beneath him and swallows him whole, sending him skyrocketing forward into his chair.

Wait, his chair? Oh right, his chair.

Dean was still at the dump his father had sent him to, waiting impatiently to head back home, though that doesn't seem to be the case anymore. Dean's blinking and batting away the already-fading vision from behind his eyelids, standing up and inhaling deeply through his nostrils. What was that smell? Dean wanted to find out—no, he needed to know; it would drive him insane otherwise.

Dean stands up from his chair and hustles towards the front of the cramped and smelly room, pushing past pocketfuls of pimps and prostitutes. He's almost made it halfway there when some ratty girl tries to pull him aside and offer him a "fun time", but Dean simply growls and roughly shakes her off. "Don't fuckin' touch me, you whore,' he snarls, and the scared woman quickly skitters away. "Asshole," she yells, momentarily bold in her embarrassment, but Dean ignores her and continues through the mess of people until he finally, _finally_ reaches the front of the auditorium. From where he is, Dean can see an empty box-like arena and a tomato-shaped man at its center. He's shirtless and wearing a torn top hat and mustard-yellow pants with red stains on them that are clearly from blood. "Next up we have an untouched male omega, fair-skinned, aged 18, and in excellent health. I'll start the bidding at 5,000 dollars," he hollers over the noise, a door opens and two handlers emerge from it with the limp body of an omega.

"Now, now," chides the auctioneer, "he's just playing shy." The fat man jostles a hand upstage and slips a few words past the microphone, a photo suddenly appearing on the wall behind him.

Dean's mouth goes dry. The nameless omega is stunning, a vision of ecstasy. The skin that flashes from under his watered down t-shirt is porcelain white and emphasizes the steady rise and fall of his toned stomach. Dean wants to touch it, run his hand between its dips and bends, and then steadily comb his way up to gently grasp a handful of the omega's raven-black hair and breathe him in.

Unexpectedly the projector image blurs and then goes static. The auctioneer makes a disapproving sound and waves his hand towards the handlers, who then roughly yank the omega's head upwards.

"That's much better," sneers the fat man. "This one isn't well trained yet, but with some work I'm positive he'll do whatever his owner wants and be an obedient little bitch. Isn't that right, you omega?"

The omega stays perfectly still, his eyes closed and slack. The fat man tries to taunt him, calls him a bunch of vile names that have Dean ready to jump in the ring and tear his ugly head off, but before he had the chance the omega—his omega, lets out a loud snarl and bites out, "I'm nobodies little bitch, you fat ass. I hope you fucki—"

Before he can finish, one of the handlers has kicked him in the stomach and shoved his face into the piss-soaked ground. The omega tries to get up, his icy blue eyes fierce as he howls and snaps at the auctioneer, but he isn't able to gain any lead.

"What did I tell you? Defiant little asshole," laughs the fat man. "Do we have any takers starting at 5,000 dollars?"

A hand shoots up in the back. "5,000 dollars," cries the anonymous man. "I'll pay five thousand dollars for that omega."

"Fuck you," interrupts another voice. "I'll pay 10,000 dollars for that little whore and then fuck him for free in front of everybody!"

There's a thunderous cheer from the crowd.

Dean's both irritated and conflicted. Part of him says to walk away and leave this lovely-smelling man, but the other half cries out in a constant thought of "My mate, my mate, my mate."

Dean's hand shoots up.

"Sit down all you sons of bitches! I'll pay fifty thousand dollars for that man…_cash_," Dean roars, his whole body rocking forward.

The auctioneer's mouth opens and closes a few times, his eyes fogging out with greed as he hollers out, "Sold to the young man with 50,000 dollars _cash_!" He makes sure to really emphasize the word. "Your prize with be taken to the pickup center where you can claim it as soon as your payment is received."

The handlers cuff the wild omega and bust him over the head with a metal rod; causing a deep gash to tear across his forehead and make him go limp. Dean yells at them to stop, trying to push past the sea of people to his omega's—his mate's side, but the room is too loud and crowded for him to catch up before they disappear backstage. The only option he had left is to manage his way over to the payment center, find his omega, then hightail it the fuck out of there.

Once he's climbed over the mass of people, Dean is able to reach the payment center's window. "Dean Winchester," he heaves out, "the man with fifty thousand dollars _cash_." The elderly man behind the bulletproof glass gives him a long stare and then thumbs through some photos. "This your boy?" he asks, flashing a photo of blue-eyed man Dean has purchased. "Yes," replies Dean. "That's him."

"Then that'll be fifty thousand bucks, kid," the geezer says, motioning for Dean to stuff the cash into the little metal slot beneath the glass. Dean shoves his left hand into his pocket, throwing the thick stack of Benjamins his father had given towards the old dude and crosses him arms impatiently. The man grabs the cash, counts it slowly and nods when it all adds up, then motions for Dean to leave and claim his omega.

"You'll find him two doors down on your right; room 373," he says handing Dean his receipt. "Alright, I got it. Thanks," replies Dean, half-walking, half-trotting towards the holding area.

He's nervous, very nervous, and very quickly starting to feel the edges of regret. He's just bought someone, a real live person that slept and ate and had emotions. Dean shook his head and tried to push his guilt aside. He'd deal with the consequences later. And besides, he wasn't going to treat his omega like other alphas did. He was going to be a good alpha and treat his mate right.

Content with his decision, Dean finds his way to room 373 and pushes inside. He isn't happy with what he sees…at all. Lying on the floor and near the edges of death is his omega, his once unmarked skin adulterated with lashes.

"What the fuck?" Dean hollers, running to his omega's side and cradling his injured head. "Who the hell did this? He didn't even struggle that muc—" Dean's jaw snaps back when the smell of fear and urination roll off the man below him. "I said," Dean growls, deep and slow in his throat, "who the fuck did this?!"

The room stays eerily quiet, all the handlers stone-still in fear. They can smell it, the sent Dean sends out in his furry. His body has unknowingly imprinted on the nameless omega beneath him. If he could, Dean would murder them all. He would slowly sink his teeth into each and every one of their throats and watch as their eyes went blank when they slipped into death.

The omega in Dean's arms violently shudders and turns to his side. He's hurt real bad, his pale skin smeared with blood, and Dean knows he needs to seek medical treatment for him as soon as possible. "Fine, you fuckin' pussies," spits Dean, about to put the omega into his arms, "don't tell m—."

"Will you just shut up and leave already you fuckin' homo? We're got better things to do than to sit around here and listen to you bitch. Just take your omega home, fuck him, and have a good time. He'll be fine in the morning. I've done this kind of stuff to people like him before," said the tallest handler. "I don't see what the damn problem is. He's just an omeg—"

Dean sees red, throwing punches left and right at all the fuck twats inside the room, and the next thing he knows he's runnin' out the back doors with an armful of limp omega and mob of drunken hookers and pimps chasin' after him. "You're going to be alright," Dean says, hurriedly setting his omega in the passenger seat of his car as gently as he can. "I swear."

Dean slams the passenger door shut and leaps into the driver's seat, buckles up his omega, shoves the keys into the ignition, and fuckin' floors it.


End file.
